Loved Like A Fairytale
by michellemybelle25
Summary: …I believe in fairytales….
1. Chapter 1

I do not own the characters; they are from various versions of the Phantom of the Opera.

New story! Yeah! This is one of the stories I wrote while on vacation, so it is a relatively new creation. It is told from Erik's point of view. Enjoy!

SUMMARY: …I believe in fairytales….

"Loved Like A Fairytale"

I believe in fairytales. Ridiculous, anyone would say to know such a pertinent fact. A point that does not fit into my cynical personality and must be a lie when every other detail makes perfect sense in its creation and existence. This odd feature would stick out blatantly as though it were a spliced thread within the intricately woven tapestry of my life. But…well, even the unwanted need something to hold out hope for, and for me, that was love. But not just love in its finite, dictionary definition. No, the transcendental, world-altering love that every happily ever after implies in its context. Forever, eternal, meant to be. It was something that transformed lives, laid bliss as its inevitable future. It was something I envied of every one of those undeserving prince charmings until it made me sick to the very heart of my being. In their stories, kisses transformed frogs into handsome gentlemen and created men from beasts. Now I was not ignorant. I knew that no matter the depth of any love I could have, it would not magically manipulate the demented features of a corpse's face into perfection. But beauty was subjective, wasn't it? And even if I would always be ugly by standard principles, perhaps…perhaps love could soften the edges, smooth out horror and create a creature worthy of compassion and companionship. Perhaps my one destined soulmate would love me in spite of it; she had to if she were the equivalent of a fairytale princess. Was it any wonder then that those stories held such weight for me?

The world is a vicious and cruel place; that was the teaching beneath every breath of my lifetime, started from a realist of a mother who must have wanted to save me from disappointment by enacting that bitterness from the very moment of my birth. And ironically, she was equally the source of my saccharine obsession with happy endings. It was a book, her very own from her childhood intermixed between volumes of classic literature in our small, scattered study. Her possession of that tome was the one merciful albeit unknown act she ever did for me. To a child coming upon its rich texts and hand-drawn pictures of beings bordering on the verge of abomination with their heinousness, it was the equivalent of the holy Bible for a believer, a collection of stories of salvation, something to inspire and guide a life's lessons. I felt little different than its customary beast or frog, choosing to correlate my emotional sensitivities with the hero even if the villain would have seemed more suiting in the years to come. As a little boy who wasn't even allowed a mirror when one glimpse in its glass had resulted in a frantically launched attack that had shattered it to pieces, to learn that these stories held beings with similar plights and never a tragedy or a sorrow-laden ending felt like a promise.

That book and its tales stayed with me through the extent of a violent and traumatic existence, through deaths and merciless deeds sure to claim my soul for the fires of hell as my afterlife. I let its hope remain like a binding fiber to my heart and the one and only soft spot I had within an iron shell. I knew that _she_, my princess and savior, must exist, that at some point in my wasted years, I must come upon her as some sort of entitlement and compensation for every disadvantage. The woman who could love me in spite of my differences, a tarnished soul and an ugly veneer, the woman who would see the beauty within the damaged casing. …I always kept half an eye out for her, …and yet imagine my shock to suddenly come upon her and realize that every word I'd ever carried hope for was, in fact, blatant reality.

Christine…. My very first glimpse of her confirmed every single written word in a leather-bound story collection. And this was supposed to be our fairytale then, wasn't it? With every dramatic act in between meant to escort us to that happily ever after? It had to be….

The night that fully convinced me that fiction could live with a heartbeat happened without my knowledge that it even would. I had grown accustomed to being fully in control of my life's course, of setting everything in motion and meticulously creating my path without bumps along my way. _I_ had chosen to retire to the underground of the opera; _I_ had had a hand in the construction of the catacombs where I had built my home; _I_ had decided to forego the bitter world and its malevolence for what I deemed to be the remainder of my life's years. It seemed intelligent after so many injustices suffered and survived. Give up that world altogether, limit any interaction I yet had to have until death finally found me. I had never intended to be an integral part of its details again, and fairytale beliefs had been in jeopardy of being fully denounced for good. I would have gone to the grave cynically betrayed and alone if not for one happy coincidence. It was really a mundane circumstance, something that in retrospect, would have otherwise been only a nuisance. A broken thread on a violin…, yes, that was all it took. That one infuriating accident when I had spent months not touching the instrument and had only just been inspired to pick it up and reacquaint myself with its timbre. A broken string…, and one look at the imperative presence of my mantle clock insisted that it was too late to venture to the one and only music shop in the city. No, they would have locked up just past sunset, and that left my options nearly nonexistent and made me huff my indignation to cast the violin aside and forget it for another indiscernible span of months until the longing returned. Well…, one option flickered to life: an orchestra pit above littered with extra instruments from careless musicians who believed leaving their prized possessions in a locked opera house meant that they were safe. Well, they were about to be taught a cruel but important lesson, or so I concluded as I stalked the catacombs en route to purloin a working violin. Maybe I'd be merciful and return it once its use was established and run out. But…mercy had never been one of my strong points.

Up, up, and I wasn't truly paying attention to anything beyond my determined course. I had a private entrance into the theatre's domain and did not think twice to use it and hastily rush into the orchestra pit with a certain impatience and annoyance to go to such extremes all because of one unfortunate, broken string. Two minutes later, and I never had that thought again.

A voice…, unconfident and afraid even without any other sort of audience but a shadow hidden in the pit at the foot of the stage's edge. My God, its very first note raced a shiver up and down my spine, and I knew. I just knew. I had to see her, see the owner of that voice that was meant to be mine, see the girl who had ignorantly chosen to remain in the seemingly empty opera house to practice believing herself to be safe and alone.

Careful and silent, I stealthily kept to the dark corners and crept upward, terrified that she might glimpse my silhouette, but she was too engrossed in her simple aria and her fantasy of singing its notes to a full, invisible audience to be wrenched from its haze. Before I even saw her and therefore lost coherent abilities, all I could think was that it was the wrong song choice for her voice. It was too easy, too innocently juvenile when I could hear echoes of great arias in her timbre, ones she likely did not believe she possessed the ability to sing, ones I knew with my help, she could. With the right molding from a master's hands, I could shape it into something extraordinary, into what I knew it could be. Talent first, but then I saw her, and my world shook and shifted.

Some fools believe that angels walk among us, to guide our path and steer our existence; I would have called such naïveté ridiculous had I not seen its proof in the body of a girl on an empty, moonlit stage. She was…perfection, exquisite, heavenly sculpted and…such beauty as I'd never seen before. An angel on earth, every lacking good point to my tarnished soul. One glimpse, and I knew she was my missing half. It was beyond the physical characteristics that anyone would glance at her and read; no, not the doll-like dark curls and large blue eyes, not the tiny features carved of porcelain or the contours of a womanly body. No, it was the soul of her, the light she exuded from her essence within. It was her heart lacing every sound out of pink lips; I could practically hear love in every uttered pitch. Love…, she felt it; she could give it. She could love…me…. And that was all it took, that one single moment for me to leap heart-first after her.

I never spoke to her that night, never dared approach. I just watched. I saw every graceful move she made, every charming expression across sweet features, and I eventually concocted my plan by her own chosen revelation.

Just before she took her leave, quitting her practice after a string of, what I felt to be, mediocre songs for the extent of such talent, she glanced those beautiful blue eyes up to the moon, peeking in from the ceiling's windows and softly whispered, "I'm waiting for you, Angel of Music. I know you'll come to me and this humble heart that adores you…."

My own plan devised by her lips. Angel of Music…. I didn't know what that meant at first and what it would mean on the path to the only ending I wanted, but I was determined to find out.

I had heard it said that the affliction of love stole the natural abilities of eating and sleeping; well, every minute I was out of her presence proved such absurdity had merit. _Nothing_ could satisfy me and the new sense of restlessness I had undertaken. It turned one solitary night until the next day's rehearsal into an unending chasm of torturous seconds. I paced, sat before the fire, paced again, tried and failed at sleep, attempted to play my music. Nothing dulled the ache in my chest or lessened the effect of her image in my head, and nothing could smooth the fierceness of my current indulged anxiety, a sort of impatience to be in her presence again. Now, now, I had to see her now. Every tick of my mantle clock leapt and snapped at my skin, grating on every nerve as if to torment me with its slow and steady passage. And I had little choice but to endure it, unable yet again to make time pass faster. …Yet…. If I were a god, I would have spun the world a bit hastily upon its axis and forced day to arrive at my whim. The sun would be up, and she would be under my roof again. …If I were I god, I would bend her affections to love me…. Pity that magic only existed in fairytales.

In the agonizing days to come, I was rarely out of her shadow from the instant she arrived at the theatre until rehearsal's end, and even afterward, I'd follow her home in the darkness, always extra diligent and careful when my typical stealthiness felt insufficient. I soaked up every detail I could learn about her with a hunger that was insatiable, desperate constantly for more. Christine, a ballerina at present hiding her talent in a pair of toe shoes with a grace that though acquired and not inherent, was lovely to behold. Lovely…, more than lovely. My God, every agile motion, every extended limb and twirl, inspired my lust to dangerous heights. Before her appearance in my world, I had been able to manipulate such seemingly natural urges, to control them as most of mankind never bothered to do; I did not leap at the sight of every feminine body in a skirt or seek out satisfaction of every swell of desire that overcame me. No, I buried such nuisances away or expelled them in notes upon a page and fiery sonatas at the piano. And I considered myself all the better for my self-control and intent denial. But with my first musings upon Christine, I learned myself to be a fool, and every restraint evaporated from my grasp until I was a passion-driven idiot in a perpetual state of need with every single glimpse of her. How I wanted her! To the same depth that I adored her! My beautiful girl! And her innocence only seemed to make my desire burn all the more intensely. Untouched…as if waiting for _my_ touch alone…. She was the epitome of my fairytale princess and my happy ending in one tempting body.

As I said, I was obsessed with learning the facets of this girl I was born to love. Swedish, an orphan, taught to sing by an overly proud father, …alone in the world just as I was. But the exact points I yearned for became mine in one fateful conversation overheard and absorbed by the darkness of shadows. Yet again I was the silhouette that she never saw as I followed her and the little Giry girl out of the opera house for their lunchtime break. Typically, this was my most difficult feat to accomplish when intruding sunlight dared to give me away and attempted to touch my shape with its revealing rays, but today, to my enjoyment, the sky was shrouded in thick grey clouds with even the occasional spatter of raindrops to predict the showers to come. Sun was defeated, and a further incentive, the impending bad weather had emptied out many of the city streets. How pleasant not to have to duck and avoid prying eyes as well on my destined path!

The girls stopped at a bakery to pick up something to eat before retiring to a nearby park, never once considering that their picnic might be spoiled by eager raindrops. No, they plopped upon a bed of grass and laughed as they ate while I lingered between tree trunks, my eyes riveted to Christine's every motion. Simply the movement of nimble fingers picking apart her croissant intrigued my attuned senses, and to hear the music of her every bubbling giggle put me in a catatonic state of bliss!

"And La Carlotta is insisting on performing the entire role center-stage, never mind the rest of the drama that constitutes the story," Meg was reporting as she shook her golden head with her own laughter. "If she is to be onstage, she expects to be in the spotlight even during the great battle and consequent death scene of Piangi. She is determined to outshine everyone!"

"Ah, to be a diva!" Christine concluded with an overdramatic sigh. "And no one has the audacity to argue with her."

"Oh, I know, and Mama even told me that Carlotta is replacing her aria in the third act with something from a different production altogether because it has more high notes!" The little ballerina purposely imitated a prima donna's pose and shrieked out a couple of stratospheric pitches before collapsing into giggles with Christine again. "I need to be a diva," Meg decided, mid-laugh. "Evidently, high notes mean power, and the louder you can sing them, the more authority you have!"

"Loud doesn't mean beautiful," Christine reminded with a cringe that I shared from the shadows with one consideration of La Carlotta's screeching timbre. If cats could sing pitches, I had no doubt they would sound exactly the same!

"Yes," Meg agreed, suddenly serious. "Carlotta has loud but not beautiful. A true diva must have both of those things…." Mischief twinkled her green eyes as she tilted her head with bemusement. "Loud and beautiful? And who do we know in possession of both? A certain disguised ballerina perchance? Christine, …and how many nights this week have you stayed late to practice in the theatre?"

My beautiful Christine shifted uncomfortably beneath such scrutiny and quickly insisted, "I am no diva, Meg. If I can be good enough for a role in the chorus upon auditions for the next production, then at least all of my practicing will mean something."

"Chorus?" Meg whined with her avid disgust. "You're far too good for the chorus. I thought you said that your father had dreams of you being the center-stage prima donna. And you will lower yourself to blended harmonies instead?"

The mere mention of her father made all laughter and smiles become as distant as her memories, and as her blank eyes stared off, I had to cower further into shadows, afraid she'd glimpse my shape. "My father," she softly said, and the word alone brought its own waver. "…But my father promised me before he died that he would send an angel in his place to teach me."

Angel…. My ears caught and latched onto that one word, and it was as if it was the very key to open a forbidden doorway. I even smiled to myself as I contemplated my forming plan; a smile from a man who was certain that in the last days since Christine's appearance, he had only just learned that nuance of facial muscles and what it meant.

"A fairytale," Meg spoke the very thought in my head. "He wanted to give you something to hold onto, but, Christine, you must realize that such a thing isn't real and can't happen."

I had the intense urge to sweep in and stifle every utterance the young Giry could make in whatever way I had to. Damn her! Her pragmatic realism was going to shatter my only chance at hope! And Christine…, her expression was unreadable, uncertain, slightly pensive but over what detail I did not know.

"Christine?" Meg pushed when silence had reigned a bit too long. "You know that angels don't exist, don't you?"

Strangle, choke off sound, I was clenching fists not to act, on the cusp of a fit waiting impatiently for Christine's response. …But it was never mine.

Before she could answer, the random mist of raindrops became a veritable sheet of water, and both girls shrieked in high pitches and leapt to their feet.

"You said it wasn't going to rain!" Christine accused with her laughter.

"Mama's going to kill us when we return to rehearsal soaked to the skin!" But even the threat could not dull her giggles as they lingered, wet already, and spun in the unceasing shower.

And I watched them the entire time, pulling my cloak close to avoid the brunt of the penetrating wetness. In some new and disconcerting way, I envied them. Never in my life had I been able to find any joy from the seemingly mundane, from ordinary occurrences of nature and the world. To me, rain had always been an annoyance, another dreary facet impeding some acts from happening. I had never found such a thing worthy of laughter and exuberance, never felt compelled to spin and jump and alter its set pattern of falling. And I suddenly wanted to see its streaking cascade through Christine's eyes, to look upon the world anew. With her at my side, I knew every dark detail of my existence would be transformed; yes, she would change the world for me.

I was haunted by angels from then on, by a concept in formation in my mind, by an obsession to smooth out rough corners with facts I did not yet possess. But after that afternoon in a rain shower, Christine never mentioned an angel again, not in the days and weeks to come. I took that as the answer she'd never given to the little Giry. Yes, she believed in angels, and she didn't want her innocent hope destroyed by Meg's dose of reality. Naïve maybe, but then again only as much as my own belief in happy endings.

Christine was still remaining after rehearsal most evenings to practice, and I took that as subtle encouragement. No one to run home to, spending her time unwittingly with me, …well, not unwittingly for much longer. It was finally time for me to act, and I found my entrance with one faltered cadenza.

She had been working for over an hour on an aria that was finally at her caliber of talent. I couldn't give her the credit of choosing it, though; it was the requirement for the chorus auditions. …Chorus, I cringed with the idea of her masking the true potential of her talent in its realm of pedestrian singing. …I was about to make her a diva instead.

The last stanzas of the aria had a rather simplistic cadenza that, try as she might, she could not accomplish. Watching her like a hawk as I always did, I knew why, knew that she did not have enough breath and support beneath to make it over the highest pitch, but she took the failure to heart and let it overwhelm and crumple her until she was succumbing to tears as she slid to her knees upon the stage.

Oh, how I hated to see her cry! I'd seen plenty of tears in my lifetime; I'd been the _cause_ of most. And I'd never cared, always able to detach myself from any sort of compassion as if I had an stone heart within. But to see _her_, my beautiful Christine, sobbing so forlorn and desperately, it made my own eyes sting with a resounding reply. Oh, my girl! I wanted so urgently to go to her side, to take her in my arms, to smooth back her soft curls and stroke her back, _anything_ to grant her solace. And as she raised her tear-stained face to the moon in the ceiling windows, my fingers tingled with the necessity to brush every crystalline teardrop away from flawless skin.

"I can't do it," she whispered to herself or the moon, I was yet unsure. "I can't…. I…." Shaking her head sadly, she begged with whole heart. "Angel, please…. I've felt you watching over me for weeks. You must see then that I would be devoted, that I am humble and willing…. Please come to me."

Anticipation rushed through my veins. She knew…; I took that as my sign. Concealed in the shadows and always beyond her view, I began to sing to her, soft, tender, and I glimpsed the recognition light her face, the sheer bliss, …the eager surrender. And at that moment, I knew she was mine.


	2. Chapter 2

Angel was a step above silent observer, but it was yet a far cry from what I truly wanted. In the weeks that followed, though, I learned the importance of communication. To actually speak to the object of my infatuation and have her speak back to me…, it was its own innocent pleasure. Every night she remained when rehearsal was over and others returned to homes and family. She was more impatient than I was to be alone and unguarded, eager for my voice, my presence, my every single word as if she craved to her soul. And I was privileged to see every boundary she kept intact during her daily life crumble and fall away so that only she in her true essence stood before me.

What a simple and yet so new pleasure to speak to another human being, to initiate a contact and have a _conversation_. I was unconfident with how to behave, with what to say and avoid my true awkwardness, but thankfully, there was always the music to fill in the gaps and carry me along. The music…, I was teacher first, working with that voice and creating it from the foundation upward. When in my role, I barely regarded her as my Christine, too fixed on achieving my goals for her instrument as if should I succeed, I would be equally worth the credit as she was. It was a challenge set before me that I was determined to win, and Christine was only the medium in between. But that was the perfectionist in me, the one who refused anything less than exceptional. And she was so overcome with my presence and so desperate to please me that she pushed herself to every extreme to satisfy my methods, working so much harder than she otherwise would have.

It was in the instant that I discarded my predetermined boundary and looked at her as my adoration once again that every enacted detachment faded and I became an uncomfortable, almost shy man in love. I had to adopt a persona in those first days, something in between angel and Opera Ghost, never just me myself because what could Erik possibly know about courting a young lady, about winning her affections and her heart. Fortunately, she was already half-enamored by an angel, and I believe she would have accepted any faux pas on my part simply with that fact in her head. But I forced myself to try and fake the confidence I did not possess, to ask questions, to learn every nuance of her and be gifted with smiles that were mine alone. Smiles…, yes, smiles because in all of this new form of contact, she never saw me, not once. I remained the invisible spectre, using my Opera Ghost tricks to throw my voice from corner to corner of the theatre so that she never suspected that I was actually always right in front of her. Close enough to watch, yet never close enough to touch.

That was my sacrifice. I could finally speak to her, hear her life story from her own lips, ask her everything I could imagine, but the affection I was earning was for an angel with gleaming white wings and heavenly grace, never for a disfigured man who ached for a touch. Touch, …no, I would burn alone…. An angel would never seduce a naïve, young girl, and so touch was inconsiderable. But how long could this truly last? While the vast majority of my being was content to be fixed in this spot with her forever, the rest knew it could never be enough.

But we carried on. Weeks, a month, and her progress was remarkable under my tutelage. She was blossoming into life as a whole; why could she not see that? It was so far beyond music; she didn't just appreciate my guidance. There were emotions breathing and thriving beneath the surface, unacknowledged but always present and growing. In my guise, she could love me; …I was half-convinced that she already did.

One night after her lesson as she lingered at the edge of the stage with those big blue eyes always looking yet never seeing, I dared to pose one of my rampant questions. In a soft, gentle tone, I asked, "What is it that you want for your future, Christine?"

I saw her slight shiver; she always shivered when I spoke to her that way, and for the life of me, I could not understand why. Her fingers even shook from it still as she tucked her dark curls behind her ear and nervously replied, "To be loved."

If she was lost to a shiver, then I succumbed to a violent tremor. To be loved…. Could she already read the mirror image of such a desire within my heart? Had she carved my being in two and stolen that reality from the innermost surface of sinew and bone? To be loved…, how my heart ached in resounding reply!

Swallowing back an unwanted rise of tears, I managed to mutter as steadily as I could, "Ah, but you're already loved, more than you could possibly know or ever realize." It was that one momentary lapse in my better judgment before I had to chastise myself with her gradually widening eyes. Too much, I had said too much, and desperate to rectify the situation for fear of frightening her away with boldness, I hastily bid, "But in music, Christine? What about the music?"

Flustered yet by my mistake, she shifted idly on her feet, fisting her shaking hands in the light purple material of her gown before insisting, "I don't know. …My father had great dreams for me, to be the prima donna, but I…well, I would be content simply to be moved from the ballet into the chorus."

"Would you?" I challenged, unconvinced. "Would you indeed? Chorus, Christine? And as we practice every night, do you not envision a full audience before you, bowing at your feet? Do you not hear their applause in your inner ear, feel their adoration and praises upon your skin? Chorus…, no, I daresay that the chorus would never be enough for you."

"But I can't-"

"Yes, you can," I quickly interrupted, pouring in every bit of confidence she lacked. "If you let fear be your guide, then chorus _will be_ all you can achieve. Perhaps you are wary to believe in yourself yet; you are still so young, and this is new to you. Believe in my instead. Believe when I tell you that you will make them bow to you, Christine. You _will_ shine on that stage as the star you were born to be. If you trust me, you will have everything you've ever wanted."

It was she who outdid my bravery as she suddenly dared to pose, "And love?"

"Love as well," I vowed and watched the hint of a smile play upon her pink lips. It was an odd torture; she wanted the love of a heavenly being, not the man he actually was. I was entirely certain that she could not fathom such a thing yet. …No, not yet. She was just too innocent. It was uncomplicated to love a being one couldn't see or touch, but a disfigured murderer was about as far from an angel as possible; and I carried a terrifying doubt that she could ever learn to love that instead.

As ignorant as she was in the true workings of the heart, I was doubly so, guided by intuition and longing, never knowledge. I was entirely sure that my opportunity to transform our situation was only just looming on the horizon, a few alterations away from being mine. This was my fairytale; the happy ending was the inevitable outcome. …Or it would have been if not for the arrival of the proverbial villain.

Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny…. Merely the title made me nauseous and sick on rage in its first utterance. Well, every memorable story must have a villain, an antagonist to try to tip the scales and attempt to stand in between true love. And even as sense argued that good would triumph in the end, rashness took hold and I made my first mistake.

It was the Gala night premiere. By my own manipulations as a precursor to my predestined ending, I arranged for Christine to sing the lead. …Well, not exactly _arranged_ so much as sickened La Carlotta to keep her unable to perform. Child's play really, nothing damning. No, I couldn't afford damning with the love of my life so close to being mine. In a way, it was its own token of affection: putting Christine in the place she was born to be, the place I _promised her_ she would be. I knew she would realize that I was responsible and hopefully gush gratitude upon my endeavors.

…All of this was before the tragic twist of events, before the dashing Vicomte swept in and attempted to receive my accolades with his charming smile and unhindered tributes. I watched all of this from behind her dressing room mirror, watched him _dare_ to touch her, innocent caresses here and there that made me so intoxicated on my envy that it was truly a miracle that I did not burst inside and strangle him where he stood. The perfect villain…, unsuspected by the heroine. In my miserable lifetime, I had foolishly been called the devil himself, but no, _here_ was the devil, tempting and conniving. After all, was not the devil once an angel and therefore beautiful in his malevolence? I was convinced that I was looking at his image, and it was exactly that analogy that allowed rash impulsiveness to take the reigns and began my own downfall.

Christine's dressing room mirror was practically a gateway into my world, a secret entrance into the catacombs, one of many always at my disposal. In the instant she was alone again, already half-moony-eyed by the devices of the Vicomte's exuded allure, I acted, too over-laden with anticipation and the tingling excitement it brought to think clearly. It was a relatively simple task; I used my voice and its deceiving beauty to beguile her, savouring the light that blazed in her eyes in the instant she recognized my presence. Her angel…. And she was too fixed on that detail to let herself dwell on the oddity of parting mirror glass and open dark tunnels to nowhere. Innocent, unconditional trust, and I used it to my advantage.

How can I fully describe that night and do it justice? To make the average person understand what it meant to me, a man who had never invited any sort of physical manifestation in the life of any other human being unless murder or malice was involved, to now be in the same speck of air as a glorious, brilliant, beautiful woman, the very longing of my heart? It was…dear God, it was heaven even in the hellish depths of my dark world. But to have Christine, my amazing Christine so close that I could catch intoxicating whiffs of her perfume, even _touch her_ if I so dared, to have her look into my eyes and truly _see me_…, I had to wonder what good I had ever done in my horrible life to receive such a blessing.

That night was a dream of consciousness that I never wanted to end. So when better judgment posed that I should return her to her own world, I didn't listen…yet again. I wanted to keep her so badly. I sang song after song, infatuating her with my voice, and she was so elated that her angel had come to her that she never questioned my mask. Perhaps she never even fully noticed it, not drunk on bliss and dreams, not as she was willingly mine. She just listened to my voice with that stunning smile that danced along every perfectly carved feature of her face, listened and reveled until eventually, sleep carried her away. And I sang on….

She would never have known this, never even sensed it, but I was _terrified_ of her. Even lost to unconscious and tucked so secure and comfortable upon my couch, I was hesitant to approach her or dare touch her. I harbored this unwanted and unproven belief that my blood-stained hands would tarnish her as well upon first contact, and that fear kept me hovering above her shape without ever even a grazed caress. How could one touch have ever been enough anyway? No, I just covered her with a thick quilt and knelt beside her sleeping form, watching her and studying every nuance by the fading embers of a fire in my hearth.

How quickly was every illusion shattered beyond repair and every fantasy of a half-conscious serenade burst out of existence and replaced with the true horror I would have rather avoided at all costs?

It was my own fault. I was engrossed in my music, one of my unavoidable faults, lost to the rest of the world in favor of a hypnosis of notes and pitches. I never noticed the intruding presence of another human being or glimpsed the small hand extend along my shoulder. No, I knew _nothing_ until a sharp gasp of terror popped my bubble of composition, and at first all I could think was that such a strange sound wasn't in the music I had spread out before me and hadn't come from the bellowing recesses of my piano. No, a gasping breath would have been an implication of a wind instrument and horrible technique of its player to breathe so hastily…. Random thoughts before reality could be found and accepted. …Oh no….

My temper is an unpredictable character flaw that I am not sure a proper prince charming should have. On its wings, I rounded on my horrified Christine, stunned and sickened by her blatant betrayal and the proof of it in the tangible presence of my stolen mask clutched in her white-knuckled hands. Oh God, her disgust! Her fear and repulsion all bound in one abhorrent expression! Of course I would choose to react with rage and hatred; of course when the alternative was tears and pain.

Blinded by fury, I leapt off of my piano bench and caught her violently shaking body by her upper arms, dragging her viciously toward me, and when she tried to cower and duck her head, I let one hand claw at her dark curls, never dwelling on the silky texture of them against my skin as I had always yearned to. No, sweet appreciation was gone; it was a bitter reality that my first touch of her would be committed out of violence. Jerking her back by the hair, I forced her to look me in the eye and regard my disfigurement.

"No!" I hissed between clenched teeth at her. "You wanted to see the face of an angel? Well, look upon it! See the true glory of heaven in its creation! I am beautiful, aren't I? The epitome of a blessed being! And how fortunate you are to have this vile creature as your adoring lover! You will never be free of your angel and his heavenly visage, Christine. No, you are _mine_!"

Her face was streaked in her tears, tears that would have been sharp enough to cut into me if I hadn't been consumed in revenge. All I saw in their crystal essence was pity. _Pity_! Pity for the monster; it even showed through her terror, and I hated her all the more so for it.

"I…I'm sorry," she was gasping out, her words equally as condemning in my eyes. "_Please_!" And her little hand shook as it extended with my mask in its grasp.

"Oh, you want me to hide it away again," I sneered at her. "So you can pretend it doesn't exist and that your angel isn't a monster instead. You want to forget, but _I_ never can. _I_ never will. Such a cruel irony, isn't it? Your darling and beloved angel is truly a beast of nightmares, a sinner and a murderer, a living corpse. A heartless monster…. Is that what you see when you look at me, Christine? Heartless…, can you not decipher amidst all of the distortions the heart that worships you?" My resistance was faltering, making anger leak and drain out until only the raw pain was left behind. The tears clouded my vision of her until I had to blink them away and allow them to fall if only to glimpse her beautiful, horror-stricken face once again. "You were never supposed to see my ugliness…," I whispered, and I would have sworn that she understood and felt my admission.

For one brief instant, she just stared at me as I cried, shaking yet in my hold before she offered the mask again as if it would set things to right and whispered back, "_Please_."

Stifling a sob, I released her and snatched my mask from her hand, turning away to replace its necessary boundary. I could hear her crying all the while, deafened by the sounds, and peeking unobserved back at her, I saw her huddled shape kneeling on the floor, limbs too weak to remain upright and stable. It was then, regarding the sheen glinting over the surface of her dark head that I recalled that her curls had felt like silk, that I had touched them and they were as addictively soft as they appeared. …If only that touch hadn't been the brutal transgression she would consider it to be. I would look at it as some stolen pleasure while she would look at it as some awful sin proving the monster I was.

After such bitter disappointment, one would have assumed that my belief in happy endings must have been shaken and potentially destroyed. But no. Hope was a binding thread running throughout, insisting that this was the needed angst en route to destiny's predetermined finale. And it was actually that assuredness that the ending must be sweet that led to my decision to take her back to her world. I didn't want to do it. I even contemplated keeping her there with me, but what would that leave me? A prisoner rather than a lover. I didn't want to give her any more reasons to hate and mistrust me, not when we had just lost the stable net beneath our built bridge of trust in her one deceptive action. No, I knew that to have her as I had dreamed, I had to let her go and for once in my life, vulnerably believe that she felt something for me that was strong enough to prevent her from daring to flee.

The middle of our story is the part I would choose to forget if only I was so lucky. It was pain brought to life from both of our respective corners. We wanted to hurt each other, and we succeeded so well that I finally began to doubt. I knew the precise details to what I wanted, but too many obstacles were standing in the way and swaying my resolve. That damn Vicomte…. Was it any wonder why I called him the devil as he filled Christine's ears with lies and twisted truths about what I was and the sins I'd committed? He made her afraid of me, and even though my face and my own rash temper had inspired the first seeds to such an emotion, he nurtured it and brought it to soaring heights. He _stole her_ from me with manipulation, and where as my own coercions had been indulged out of love, his were purely out of envy, envy for the girl he wanted and knew he couldn't have unless I was dead. A villain…, _that_ is a villain, a being set on destruction and death, on damage and selfish triumph. He would have stopped at nothing to convince every living being that I was only an unstable madman with a vendetta against the world. And worst of all was that he put the idea in Christine's head as well.

A kiss on a rooftop, and my heart was shattered into indiscernible fragments of its once sturdy, impenetrable shape. She let him kiss her, even kissed him back, professed her love, called me a monster, and I was so distraught that I let her go that night. It was conveniently forgotten that I stayed away from them. For six long months, I buried myself beneath the opera as I had in years before and lost my sanity to music's sphere. My one comforting thought through the trauma was even amidst her loyal oaths to the Vicomte, she had not told him where to find me, had not put a death sentence on my doorstep. Any lingering hope I had was fueled by that one blatant fact until I let my twisting mind convince my broken heart that perhaps she had acted in such a way out of love; perhaps she hadn't vowed herself to the Vicomte that night, but had instead acted to save me. It was such a consuming idea, playing in an incessant loop through my head that I became intoxicated and obsessed with its details. Yes, yes, she loved me and was sacrificing herself to save me. My darling girl…. Loved me all along…. Of course, she did! She was my one and only love after all! She would never denounce me!

And all of those rampant contemplations progressed the lackluster horrors of our storybook romance to its dramatic final scene. A threat and ultimatum. I felt I had no choice but to lay them perfectly into place, so certain their graveness would jar her pretense and have her professing her love for me with open arms. That was my fairytale ending, and no matter what I was determined to have it.

That night boasted the premiere of my opera. I was never fool enough to believe they were agreeing to my terms to perform it because of the very real brilliance of the music. No. They wanted me dead, and I put no blame for that misguided plot on Christine's shoulders. I knew who the mastermind was, and fully blamed an egotistical villain. Oh, how I could not wait to use _him_ to _my_ advantage instead! To have _his_ flawless throat in my rope and life in my hands! But first….

There were many reasons why I sang with her that night. Of course, simply the pure pleasure of such an act would have compelled me to do it, to act out a scene of seduction in the way it was meant to be. But beyond that, I knew that that one act would inspire her mind and her memories, would remind her of the days she had loved an angel, had spoken to an angel and told of her every fear and wish, of the bond we had always shared through it all. And when she sang back to me with that beautiful light always in her eyes, I knew that she understood. Christine, _my_ Christine…, and a happy ending so close that I could practically feel it tingling my skin with its anticipation.

That was the first night that I was allowed to touch her and have it be as close to real as ever before. The stage show was acted but had a deeper foundation than expected, and every graze of a finger led to another caress, every one as addictive as the last until I never wanted to stop touching her. My God, her skin was so soft and warm, flushed from nerves, and I prayed to God, even a fraction of the desire in the piece and flowing through my veins. It wasn't just a performance; I refused to believe that when she was just so willing and so wanting. And when she pulled off my mask, I had no doubt that she was making a point, blatant and inarguable, to me and everyone in that theatre. She was making a choice.

I was so certain in fact that it surprised me when I wound up having to practically drag her into the catacombs with me. Why should I have to drag her if she had chosen me? But as was always the case, I overlooked the potency of her innocence, of that damn naïveté that typically stood in the way of her courage. She would shun me again and again and follow the Vicomte with wide, trusting eyes if only to avoid having to be brave and following the more difficult path. No more!

I was angry with her weak spirit when I practically heaved her into her room in my home. "Put on that dress!" I coldly instructed and gestured to the beautiful gown laid out upon her bed. A wedding gown…. Well, obviously! Why would I settle for anything less than perfection?

"Erik," she said softly, tears in her eyes, and I nearly crumbled. I had rarely heard her speak my given name, only twice, once after I had initially revealed it and once to her darling Vicomte, quaking with fear in her tale of the monster beneath the opera house. To hear her call me by its meager letters and syllables and watch an unmistakable flicker of emotion in her eyes nearly unraveled every woven detail of my plan. How could it not when I longed to fall to my knees before her and beg like a simpering child?

Swaying with that instinctual urge, I desperately demanded, "What would you have me do, Christine? My heart has been set before you time and again, and you've carelessly tossed it aside. You've broken me to pieces…, but I love you so much…." This was honest, as honest and revealing as my bare face before her. Perhaps both my scars and my declaration were an abomination, but she did not cower in disgust. No, she stayed rooted in place and idly allowed those tear-filled blue eyes to trail the malformed features of my disfigurement, silent, pensive, and compassionate to the point that I cried harder to behold it.

Without a thought, I caught her face between my hands, pressing my palms to the curves of her cheeks, and I sobbed when she did not recoil or shudder. This caress was solely ours, no roles applied, no questions in between; I almost could not fathom that I was being permitted this simple indulgence. To truly touch her as myself….

My thumbs grazed her lips and learned their velvety softness, always under her observant yet hesitant eyes, and when she suddenly dared to kiss the pad of one thumb, I gasped and whimpered my devotion, extending the tips of my fingers along her hairline to be teased by the silk of curls.

"Oh, Christine," I breathed amidst tears. "You love me; I know you do."

"Do I?" she whispered back, trembling before me and yet edging closer to my body. "Do I love you, Erik? …Or are you making me love you?"

"No!" I vehemently vowed. "Those aren't your words; those are the Vicomte's. He has filled your head with lies and exaggerations, contorted your every feeling into a blasphemy. _He_ is the one who has poisoned your mind until you must doubt your heart."

"But you are a murderer," she accused in a tremulous whisper.

I could not deny, so I promised back, "I would _never_ hurt you. _Never_, Christine; you know that. I've barely ever touched you…, and never like this." Illustrating this possible transgression, I guided my fingertips across every delicate feature of her face, always gentle and tentative. It frustrated me that her eyes flickered closed and left me unable to read her reaction so that when she shivered, I could not say for certain that it wasn't out of fear. "I would only ever be tender with you."

Still those blue depths remained barred to my intrusion, and so I chose to act without the guilt I might have otherwise known. Leaning close to her beauty and exquisiteness, I dared to set the most timid of kisses to her lips. I knew it was wrong. How could it be acceptable when my mouth was as distorted as every other feature of my face and hers was a sculpted masterpiece? But I took that joy as my own and prayed that like in the stories, it would transform me. Beautiful in her eyes, a man from a beast. A kiss could work magic if she believed in it as well.

But I never had my answer. Within the next breath, I caught the faint sound of one of my many alarms warning me of my expected intruder, and releasing Christine abruptly, I commanded again, "Put on the dress."

Her eyes were hazy when they opened and regarded me; was that a hint of surprise in their depths? Perhaps she'd forgotten that she was kissing her dubbed monster. …Monster, I was supposed to have been her prince….

I was driven to rage by that one thought, and without pause, I locked her in her room as she called my name and shook me once again with its letters. But no, no, I would not be deterred!

Here is how things were supposed to have played out. I threaten the dashing Vicomte, realism completed by his neck in a noose; I pose a seemingly simple ultimatum; Christine makes the right choice, truly the _only_ choice if she didn't want the death of the Vicomte upon her conscience; inevitable conclusion: happily ever after with the future spread out before us. …And I would never be alone again. That was the planned course of events, but I hadn't anticipated one small, inarguable point.

It was in those final moments, threat laid and exposed in a gasping Vicomte, Christine stoic and watching me in her bridal finery. Her eyes…, her eyes, there was such disappointment in her eyes. What did she truly expect? She knew what I was. A monster, wasn't it? Well, was this not how monsters behaved? …Monster. …At that moment, my world cracked. Every role shifted in its makeup. I was no longer prince charming. How could I be? No, prince charming had ridden in to save the day only to find his neck in a noose by… the villain. Oh God….

My ultimatum was heavy and thick in the air, hanging among the three of us with its every life-altering detail, and I suddenly didn't care. No, …I was looking at it from _her_ eyes and in _her_ perspective, and I felt utterly sickened to the soul. The beautiful heroine sacrificing herself for the man she loved and committing her life to the ugly and distorted villain. …_Villain_…. It was a bitter reality to face, but it had validity. From prince to villain…. My God, I truly _was_ a monster!

I knew at that moment that I wouldn't dare hold her to it, that I would end this charade as hastily as it had begun, even if that meant losing her forever. But before the words ever hit the air, she was before me with such avid determination in those blue eyes and more conviction than I'd ever seen from her. My beautiful Christine…. _You were supposed to have been mine_….

"Christine, I-" The words were cut off and lost between our lips as without impetus, she leaned on tiptoe and kissed me. _Kissed me_…, kissed the monster's ugly face…. And all I could think in the furthest recesses of an addled mind was that _this_ was what a fairytale felt like.

A kiss earlier had been a transgression on my part and an acquiescence on hers; this kiss was not the same. This kiss was real, magical, swaying dimensions and letting fantasy overwhelm the coldness of tangible life. Her lips so gently moved against mine and encouraged me to follow when awkward innocence left me uncertain. And she never seemed to mind that my lips were misshapen and unworthy of her; she made it seem like it was just so _ordinary_.

Love…, I felt love, and my every limb trembled and quivered. I wanted to cry, to sob, to beg her for so much more. This was _living_; I was desperate that she never take it from me again. And as I felt the ground becoming unstable beneath my feet, it was she that held me up, her arms coming about my shoulders, clutching me to her as if I were something dear and treasured. Her little hand even dared to graze a solitary caress to my deformity, and I was undone, the tears spilling along my cheeks and wetting her fingertips.

That kiss _was_ a transformation. When fairytales boasted that essential and climatic kiss that spun vortexes of magic and changed the world, this was mine. It was obligated to lead to a happy ending, and I was determined that if nothing else, _she_ would have hers. For one instant, I was the prince and hero of the story with an utter certainty that she had equally placed me in that role, and in the next, I denounced it and _chose_ villain instead.

"Go," I told her before senses were even recovered, an impossible feat to be sure with her body still so close that I was shaking to behold its natural heat.

"What…?" she stammered, brow furrowing. I would have sworn that I saw reluctance, and I savoured the sight. If nothing else, it showed that I had meant _something_ to her, and that would have to be enough.

Without sway, I removed myself from her proximity, busying violently shaking hands with cutting the rope confining the Vicomte and watching with an odd modicum of satisfaction as he fell to the floor.

"Erik…."

I was suddenly shaken for a second time that evening. I saw tears, and I had not expected tears. No, none of this was anticipated. She had not rushed to the Vicomte's side to smooth his hair and embrace him as her beloved. No, she was in the same spot where a kiss had been acted out, and tears were streaming down the porcelain features of her face.

"Don't look at me that way," I nearly sobbed the words at her. "Don't you understand? I'm giving you what you want, …what you deserve. And your tears…. I cannot bear to see you cry, Christine. Each tear is a dagger in my heart. Just go."

"And will you tell me not to feel these things as well?" she abruptly blurted out, each word tumbling forth with every crystalline tear's trek. "You would rather control my heart in the same way you try to control yours and decide what I shall feel and how I shall act."

"What are you talking about, you ridiculous girl?" I suddenly snapped at her, lunging forward and catching her forearms in my hands. As usual, rashness prevailed even when sense insisted against it, and I clutched tight to the lace sleeves of the wedding gown, digging my fingertips into the softness of the flesh beneath. "I am giving you your noble prince charming and the life you've dreamt of. A Vicomtesse you'll be, loved and adored…." Every word I fought to utter was tight and constricted in the depth of my pain. I did not bother to conceal it; I just bore into her eyes with my stare and knew it was written across my every malformed feature. And in half a growl, I shouted, "A fairytale brought to life." My restless hands traveled up her shoulders to catch her tear-stained face in my palms, and all I kept thinking was that this would be the last time I'd ever touch her. "The perfect ending. …You know I almost forgot…, but in the story, it wasn't a kiss that turned a beast into a man…. It was _love_, and if there is no love, then I can only ever be a monster. I am cursed and condemned."

I was surprised that she had not recoiled from me, that she permitted my contrived touch even if it was a sin. …I was not her prince. But I was tracing her features with my fingertips one last time, memorizing as I created like an artist upon a canvas, forming perfection and bringing it into existence. In the exhalation of a breath, I dared to whisper the most vile transgression of all, "Christine, I love you…."

I heard the small gasp she gave, felt its utterance as my finger outlined her lips, and I brushed away the fresh fall of new tears. Of course…. I could be as tender as possible, but I would always make her cry.

"Christine…." Ah, the true prince, recovered and regarding my dared caresses with disgust from one corner.

All at once, I fisted my fingers into my palms and drew away, refusing another look into blue eyes as I insisted to the gallant Vicomte, "Take her and go. …_Please_ just go."

Her sobs were singing in my ears, deafening in their softness, and I had to turn away, only imagining the rest of the scene in my head as the Vicomte rushed to her side and pulled her after him with only one single protest. In a soundless whisper, I heard her gasp my name, and I had to hide the sob that threatened to unravel my morality. I wanted her! Dear God, I wanted her so much! In my life! In my arms! In my heart! And as only the soft patter of retreating footsteps filled my ears, I felt my soul go with her, leaving an empty shell in its wake.


	3. Chapter 3

Hope is such a masochistic emotion. Realism calls its existence futile, but it thrives on and tortures with its concocted hint of optimism. It didn't seem to care that the only woman I'd ever loved had abandoned me with another man. It kept alive with this persistent flicker in the background of every heart-wrenching tear I shed even as I desperately sought to extinguish its cruel fantasy. She wasn't coming back; I insisted it over and over again to myself, and yet infuriating hope recalled a kiss and idle touches and tears. Hope kept me in an awful state of suspension between living and falling completely apart and teased me with the hushed assurance that she _must_ return.

I don't know how much time I spent lost to a state of emotional hypnosis: hours, maybe a day, long enough for my insides to remain thankfully numb and stagnant, dulled to details in a way that wouldn't last. If only it would…. Pain awaited me at the end of its tunnel, and I was loath to feel it.

At some point, I slept, taking up residence in her abandoned room, refusing to consider that she'd never have it again as hers. No, no, not yet. Sleep was a reprieve, and dreams were their own fabricated version of torture when they could only be of her. My beautiful Christine…. I dreamt of her…, of her face, her eyes, her voice. I heard her speak the words I'd spent a lifetime denied in my inner ear.

"Erik…," her sweet voice whispered, lingering on those simple syllables of my name. "…I love you."

How cruel was a dream world! How unfair and bitterly constructed! It showed me the very things I longed for, tempted and teased me with possessing them; it put her within my grasp when in reality, she was already only a memory. But in a dream, I believed, and I felt her there with me, her warmth and softness, her breath grazing my unmasked face with her subtle approach. I dreamt that she dared to kiss my face as if it was ordinary…. Could any more vicious lie exist? Even in the midst of subconscious, I could not fully accept it; nobody, not even my Christine, would have dared kiss my deformity, and it was that very realization that returned truth. _No, no, Christine won't kiss me because she is gone_….

I was doomed to awaken alone; I knew that before full awareness was mine. But…her warmth, her nearness, her soft body barely pressed to mine, those things did not abandon me as hastily as I had presumed they would. My eyes were yet closed, refusing to open and glimpse the empty space of mattress beside me, but my senses were muddled and off their equilibrium. …My love…. I could _feel_ her….

Not even a peek, and I extended my fingers to the mirage in my brain, picturing her shape behind my lids, etching it to such perfection that hope could thrive on its contours. And when my fingertips struck solid matter, soft, silken flesh, a terrified cry ripped from my lungs. "Haunted," I gasped, still refusing a single look. "And is this all I'm meant to have of her? Her ghost to haunt me until eternity? It won't be enough! I will get greedy and take more. …A ghost…, maybe in death I'll have what life would never allow."

"Erik…." It was that beautiful voice again in a reprieve from the angels, and I had no doubt at that moment that I had died, that a broken heart had suffocated the life out of me, and I knew no regret if death meant a fantasy of my very own living angel. "Open your eyes." She spoke the very command that I was terrified to consider obeying. Open my eyes and destroy illusion and subsequently, the lingering remnants of hope's sweet taste.

"No," I decided firmly. "I'd rather be ignorant than finally suffer for my foolishness and its sins. I want to live in the dream a little longer."

"Dream…," her voice bid so tenderly, and I would not look, even as my head tormented me with the vision of the gentlest of smiles on her beautiful lips. Yes, …if this was a dream, she _would be_ smiling. I didn't move, didn't breathe, but I _felt_. And what I felt were two small hands, cupping my face so tentatively between their warm palms, holding each of my cheeks as if they were equals.

"No," I whimpered from the gaping wound that thrived unhealed in my soul. "No, …don't be a dream…. Oh God, _please_ be_ real_."

I wanted to speak more coated words, more begging, more pleading, _anything_ to breathe life into her, but my chances were stolen as warm lips touched mine. Dear Lord, this felt as real as I'd yearned for it to be! Familiar! Desired! My mouth recognized hers as its perfect mate. She was my only kiss after all, and to my touch-deprived body, _she_ meant _kiss_ and _caress_ and _love_ at its essence! _She_ was the embodiment of every emotion and sensation I knew! It was an amazement to me in its permanence. Kiss could only _mean_ kiss with Christine, and love could only _mean_ love if it was for her. Christine! This was Christine!

My hands caught her frame then, finding shoulders and arms where they were supposed to be, tracing her collarbone upward to her throat, molding its column. Christine! I had barely ever touched her, and yet I knew from so many times of envisioning it that _this_ was how she would feel! She was perfection!

Her lips were innocently moving against mine, drawing the passion that she wanted out of me, and when I conceded and mimicked her motions even daring to further this condemnation by letting the tip of my tongue emerge to barely graze her velvety lips, she urgently scooted nearer to my body. Real! Oh God, she _was real_! Only then did I dare open my eyes and gaze at her, her own lids closed to gentle arches and crescent lashes with our intimate act. She lay upon the bed with me, half-stretched out and half-modestly still curled into herself, but as I dared to repeat my action and this time allow my tongue between the willing seam of her mouth, modesty seemed to dwindle as she again edged close, unfurling timid limbs until she could match my pose and fit herself to my shape. It was some sort of blessing I didn't deserve, that mere movement by itself because of what it meant, and yielding lips parted and permitted my exploration and let me taste her! Oh God, how I yearned to drown in the intoxication of her!

…Not yet. It was a reluctant groan that escaped separating mouths and told my disappointment even though I had been the one to end our kiss. And as her blue eyes fluttered open and regarded me with such uncertainty, I was undoubting why I had had to do it.

"You were gone," I accused in an empty phrase, yet succumbing to the suspension I had been victim to all night. "I let you go, and you were as real then as you are now."

"No," she replied softly. "You let go of a child who was playing a role, _always_ playing a role. She wasn't real and neither was the man posing ultimatums and laying ridiculous choices at my feet. We were acting our parts with each other and hurting each other without consideration until it was too late. We would have carried on in their guises forever and destroyed ourselves with our hearts."

"Guises? My guise was the double-cast role of your prince charming. Foolish and presumptuous when truly I have been unworthy of that title all along," I attempted to snap, but temper couldn't seem to spark into flames with her so close and not scurrying away when she should have been. "I scripted our fairytale, Christine, to exact detail, every hardship and twist that would lead to love and happy endings. In my head, I saw it carried out to perfection like the well-tailored libretto to an opera. I was so certain in plot and casting and…," I shrugged and would not meet her eye with rising shame, "and characterization, the duets and heartfelt arias that would reveal the inner workings of the heart. …I cannot expect your understanding; I have lived my life with a gullible heart when love is its attempted emotion; it knows no better than to dream and to hope." Shaking my head sadly, I dared, "And cruelly, it hopes on despite every argument of better judgment. It taunts me with the vision of you spread beside me, your palm yet against my face. It concludes a why that doesn't exist. So I pose it to you; tell me why, Christine. Why are you here? Why are you touching me as if I have any right to be your lover? This is not our ending."

"You love me," she stated with only the slightest waver and the tinge of pink upon her cheeks. "You said that you love me, and you were so certain that I loved you, too."

"And…do you, Christine?" I questioned with hope singing in my veins. "I won't conclude it again for you. Our lives are not the sugarcoated destiny of fairytale characters."

"And why may I not choose to believe in fiction over reality? I did once. I believed in an angel without doubt, and I loved him unconditionally."

"He did not exist. An angel…, and I am a murderer and a monster instead." It was fact, blatant and cold; I refused to continue denying what I was; I couldn't outrun it if I tried.

"A monster who let me go rather than force his chosen destiny upon my shoulders," she posed back. "I have been unable to contemplate anything else since you released me. You gave up everything, every detail you'd envisioned and hope you had; you sacrificed your heart for mine, …only you never knew that you were breaking it instead."

I could endure no more. So far, beneath hope's interference, I had been yet half-certain that every nuance of this scene was a sort of drawn-out goodbye, a means to leave me alone without the guilt a good girl like Christine would have known for it. Breaking _her_ heart…. My hand made a slow path from where it had been loitering at her jaw down to press firm to the thudding of that supposedly damaged organ. "And what does this heart say, Christine? Whose name is whispered in its echoes?"

She was ever patient with me, her eyes so calm and deep that I wanted to fall into them and drown, and smiling so slightly, she covered my hand with her own, fitting her palm to my knuckles and clasping it in place. "Your name, _ange_," she answered avidly. "Only ever yours. My Erik, my angel."

My eyes widened with the possibilities suddenly seeming to be offered to me. Without hesitation, I caught her hand and dragged it with mine to press it to my own beating heart. "And my heart is screaming _your_ name, Christine, in its every beat. _You_, only ever _you_. Please tell me that that is acceptable and wanted!"

And I waited with a mixture of impatience and hope, with longing so intense that it created tears in my eyes, tears from a heart that ached to be hers.

"Yes, Erik, wanted and cherished."

"_Love_, Christine?" I pushed without consideration. "Is it love? In spite of what I am and what I've done? …In spite of my face?"

Her free hand suddenly found my cheek again, her fingers trailing scars that disgusted _me_ with their existence. She learned their every oddity with a tenderness that made my tears fall faster. "You are not an angel," she softly told me, "or a monster or a ghost. Erik, you are a man who deserves love as much as everyone else does. …And I have loved you and the story you created for me since the very first day. …It's always been our fairytale, Erik."

A fairytale…. And I was determined it would be just that. No longer the tragedy it had seemed at its culmination. This could be my happy ending; it was exactly my dreams brought into existence and blended so irrevocably into reality that it had to seem as blissful as fantasy.

Most of humanity cannot believe in the magical context of a fairytale world. I myself should have been a pessimist to such saccharine ideals and surely must have seemed a fool to put faith in their destined finish. But love has taught me that life is what one wishes it to be. I wanted a fairytale, and I treated my life and my future with Christine like those same fairytale stories and my vision of them. I shouldn't have been so fortunate to have such a gift, not after a past that could only be condemned, but I was blessed. In spite of it all, I wasn't forgotten and as unwanted to the world as I had always believed. Trauma had begotten trauma through every hardship; I had been tortured and retaliated the same without consideration to consequence. I deserve no pity or justification, but I was not a villain, not the devil as I'd been called. I was just a creature longing for love and acceptance like every other member of the human race. And I was reminded as I felt Christine's warm body curled against mine while she slept that a hero did not have to be handsome or righteous or perfectly designed; he just had to be loved to be worthy. And I…I was indeed loved.


End file.
